In a small apartment with a bedroom and a bathroom and a closet and a mattress there lives a couple. The walls are white and there are paintings strewn about on them. Each is of something different - a dragon, a bird, a skull, a flower. Each is drawn by the same person and has 'K.H.' artsily scribbled into the right hand corner. Their King size bed takes up a majority of the room in which they lay naked, tangled in each others arms. The sheets are in disarray and there are socks and bras and inside-out-panties-still-attached jeans tossed about carelessly between the entry and where they are now. Obviously there were still parties to be had when they left the club last night.
He is asleep and she is watching him, a half smile all the while. When she looks at him, it makes her heart swell and sing and do the silly things they sing about in love songs. When he touches her skin-on-skin it feels like the most amazing thing in the world. A photograph on the nightstand beside her shows a story of the bride and a groom a couple of years hence. The two in the image have that proverbial sparkle in the eye and seem to be unable to take their gazes yes off one another. She looks at him that way now while he lays atop her.
He stirs when she moves out from under him, though she's as gentle as she can be. She almost fully escapes but he catches her. With a sleepy flop of his arm he swings his hand up on her hip. She turns to face him so that she is curled up on her side. His large hands fit well around her curves. He lifts his hand and traces her stretch-marks with the pads of his fingers. He smiles a comfortable and smug smile; the way a boy smiles when he has earned a great prize, all the while keeping his eyes closed. Her body is clearly committed to his memory. It is but a roadmap ingrained in his head, his tongue, the tips of his fingers, and his sweet, sweet cock; Notably, that also stirs a bit when he touches her. She doesn't want to wake him. She lays still.
When his arm goes slack again and his breathing becomes relaxed she easily slides out from under his hand and rolls off the edge of the mattress. There's no frame between it and floor so the drop to the hardwood floor is an easy one. She puts on her white cotton, above-the-knee length robe. There are cherries printed on the edges of the pockets and the lining of the opening; The dark reds match her perfectly manicured toenails exactly. Quietly, she tiptoes over and opens the sliding glass door to stride out onto the deck.
The air is foggy and chilled at 6am in San Francisco no matter what time of year it is. It makes her hug her own body for warmth. Responsive ripples across naked flesh rise up as goosebumps. The balcony is a good enough size for the city: about eight feet by eight feet, white-painted wood that overlooks the streets below by three exact matching floors. This leaves two identical above their unit for a total of five, for the sake of imagery. There is a little table, round and perfect for two people. That's where Jane finds the cigarette and lighter she'd come out here for. The plastic on the outside is wet from the dew, the edges of the pack starting to fall apart from the moisture. She shakes it off and opens the top with a flick of her wrist, one of the two remaining sticks bouncing towards her waiting hand.
There are two chairs out here; they're the type of chairs one brings camping or fishing with them, cheap and made from a material that promises strength and delivers a comical performance of people falling straight through the sun and weight worn center one day. If all pans out well, it will be one of your guests in them as it tends to be. There are drink holders fashioned perfectly into the shapes of a 12oz can at either end of the armrests and a mesh backing for leaning back into. You know exactly what kind of chair it is.
Jane? Well, she's up against the rail of the porch facing away from her home, cars zipping by below unawares of her presence. She lights a cigarette and takes a couple of drags. With the smoke-stick between her lips she leans over and looks down towards the street with a sigh. There's obviously a lot on her mind. It's not them she's paying attention to either. If you must know, she's thinking about last night in the bathroom, and wouldn't you be if it were you? Though she and Kevin had fucked for merciless hours the night prior, all she can think of is the ebony locks on the strange woman and her exposed breast. How she'd cupped her own bosom as if to say come, come suck this tit that I hold exposed for you. Those eyes, that skin, that backside as the woman had sauntered off stage...
Even as she thinks about it now, she can't help but wander her adventurously free hand downward into the folds of her own robe. She takes another drag, stopping only briefly to savor the smoke rolling over her tongue. Her hand is halfway down her breast, the open robe exposing her erected flesh to the stinging oceanside breeze. Under the thin cotton fabric she catches her own surprisingly hard nipple and squeezes it, rolling it back and forth between thumb and finger. It swells larger in response and sends pangs into her groin, all of her body sensitive and tender from being suckled and screwed the night before. The smallest of touches make her rock her hips and sway her body needily.
Although she has just left the naked Kevin in their bed only moments ago, he is not on her mind here and now. Though her own husband is clearly eager to appease her desires, it isn't he who she is getting wet for this time. She eases her hands down the length of her stomach; past that patch of well-groomed, barely-there hair. Her own fingers rub familiar, knowing circles into her own agonizing pleasure nub.
The tissue there is sore and abused from the lashings of Kevin's poking and prodding. He always performs gently with her, but even gentle sex causes chafing and swelling when you act on it for long enough at a time. Still, just as she knew it would her clit responds to its masters intentions. With eyes closed she thinks about what would have happened if she'd have called the woman out on the tom-peeping when she saw her. If she had just stopped the festivities of their fornication for but a second to point out to her husband. Maybe, she thinks now, Rita might have wanted to join in.
She imagines what it would be like to have a womans tongue replacing her fingers now with a warm, satiny touch. She wonders how soft the woman's skin is, and if she can make her squirm like she can for herself. What would her fingers feel like if they touched her here? Would they be equally soft or are they textured, calloused from working the pole at the club? Even when she imagines Rita running her hands up and down the pole it causes a wild tinge in Janes vulva.
Before she knows she is standing there soaked and her groin is on fire, her twat throbbing painfully. There is then and only then a sense of awareness in her that she may be caught at any minute by the people below or one of the neighbors. When this thought occurs, instead of withdrawing, she jams her finger deep into herself all the way to the last knuckle. The liquid-wet sucks her inside thirstily and admits a second finger the same. Suddenly she is the Rita to her own story, ready and willing to be caught though all she has to look at is a memory of her own concoction.
It is all she can do to hold herself up with her elbow on the rail and wobbly knees, her cigarette still clenched tightly in the free hand. There she is on the end of the porch and she's rubbing suddenly and fiercely away at already engorged skin, fucking herself with wild abandon in the middle of the morning. Her breath is quickening, quivering while she imagines that black hair running over her own naked body, lost between moist crevices, tickling and teasing and oh! What would it smell like? She inadvertently moans loudly at the very thought and has to look back over her shoulder to make sure she hasn't woken Kevin.
He is still there sleeping, face up now, sprawled out across the bed. The sheets are tangled around his thigh. She believes that his body is the most beautiful thing on earth when she looks at it, and she thinks he's the most amazing man in the world, so she can't for the life of her understand why she can't get that woman's face out of her head. She can't understand why she can't tell him, either, but she feels almost guilty about her own uncertainties.
